By Steve Deal

On Memorial Day – this most sacred of secular American holidays – the below story of service is dedicated to the Green Mountain Boys of the Vermont National Guard and their families, who serve so faithfully and honorably as they have throughout the history of this nation.  

To my knowledge, there are at least 25 fallen Vermonters who gave the “last full measure of devotion” since the attacks of September 11, 2001, with hundreds of families and loved ones affected – forever.  No other state has shed so much blood as a percentage of its population.  

The spirit of service runs strong through these mountains and valleys, something that unites more than any force could ever divide.  We must never forget, and in their memory, we must never cease to “bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for those who have borne the battle, and his widow and orphan.”

It was in the foothills of Indiana during the summer of 2010 when hundreds of Americans gathered to train for a 10-month deployment to Khost province, in Afghanistan, as a provincial reconstruction team (PRT).  Our mission, equipped with civil engineers, diplomats, medical and foreign aid experts, and more was to partner with Afghans, shoulder to shoulder, to help them to rebuild their country after not just decades but centuries of destruction and bloodshed.

Our group consisted of active and reserve women and men from the U.S. Army, Navy, and Air Force, as well as a forty-two-person platoon from the 181st Infantry regiment of the Massachusetts National Guard, the oldest organized military unit in the United States.  Later, civilians from the State Department, the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), and the Department of Agriculture joined us. 

After the first two intense weeks, acclimating to our gear and the heat of Camp Atterbury, we were granted two 12-passenger vans and a few hours of (non-alcoholic) liberty to find a local restaurant off-base, and take a breather.  I asked my Sergeant Major to lead our younger folks out while more senior staff remained in the barracks.

When they returned, the Sergeant Major related that some Solders sat together, quietly, away from the rest, without ordering food.  After everyone else received their meals, he went over and asked and learned that they were still waiting on their first paycheck after months of unemployment.  

Living from deployment to deployment since 9/11, and at times, sleeping rough under train trestles and overpasses, these patriots had little other training than “pulling security”, and often, no hope other than serving in a niche war economy. 

Some Reservists in the unit had deployed four times since the attacks of September 11, 2001.  The “Total Force” concept created near the end of the Vietnam War, designed to ensure that never again would the country campaign for long periods without the acquiescence and support of the entire nation, had been fulfilled beyond any conception of its aftermath. 

Specialized combat support expertise required for such long campaigns were purposefully spread out amongst the states, rather than in the active component.  

Most Americans don’t realize that the United States cannot commit to long-term overseas action without the support of the Guard and Reserve, and most importantly, their families and communities, who have no way to prepare for such multiple deployments, extended absences, and resulting career changes. 

Once we were in Khost, we learned many had endured horrific home violence since childhood, still bearing the effects of trauma of enemies not located overseas, but within their own four walls.  A war sounded much better, and far more lucrative, than going back to Southie.  Some had been alcoholics and drug abusers since their early teen years – one even had a friend send vodka to him in a used laundry detergent container, making it all the way to our small outpost in Khost. 

Still others endured debilitating mental hardships from past combat experiences, exacerbated by daily indirect missile fire (IDF) and attempts to ambush our vehicles with improvised explosive devices (IEDs).  America had created a socioeconomic class to fight its undeclared war – deployed over and over, leaving states and local communities without a vote, yet bearing unimaginable costs. 

We trained for one of the most demanding missions possible – counterinsurgency.  Representing the best intentions of America, we held out open arms to Afghans, with rudimentary Pashto language skills, deliberately exposing ourselves to possible attack by an unidentifiable enemy; while at the same time, ready to defend with overwhelming fires, in armored Mine-Resistant Armored Personnel (MRAP) vehicles with crew-served weapons.

Every day we travelled “outside the wire” – usually in hours-long roundtrips in our MRAPS over empty riverbeds and steep, unforgiving terrain.  Conducting meetings with the provincial governor, district leaders, tribal elders and clergy, Afghan contractors who were doing the actual work of rebuilding or making quality assurance and control trips to the various projects underway – schools, roads, bridges, irrigation systems, and more.

I was asked many times by visiting dignitaries, especially from Washington: what is your strategy here?  And I would answer: to enable the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan to provide essential services to their people, to gain confidence in their government, and to enable them to gradually root out those with the determination and capacity to attack Afghans, the United States, and our allies.  

None of us thought we would or should be in Afghanistan forever.  Most of us understood we would never change the way Afghans had lived for generations, nor should we.  And few of us imagined we would abandon our commitment to Afghans who literally pledged their lives and their families to our friendship.  

In fact, one of our proudest moments was in navigating the bureaucratic tangle to bring two of our Afghan advisors and their families back to the United States, where they have become naturalized citizens. 

A decade after we came home, the United States ignominiously left Afghanistan.  Some of us from that PRT joined a call as we watched cargo aircraft taxiing for a final departure with hundreds of Afghans following, a scene reminiscent of helicopters departing Vietnam.  

One of us instinctively remarked, “Those guys are going to try to ride that plane out of there.”  And they did, falling to their deaths.  Yes, we knew we had to leave, but not like that. 

This isn’t a call to question American strategy or motives.  It is to recognize those who answered the call to service, to duty, whether Guard, Reserves, Active, or Civilian.  It is to try to comprehend the vast price we pay as individuals, families, communities, and states in a system originally designed to reduce the possibility of such long-term campaigns.  

Yes, I am alive now to attest: we can all be proud of how our fellow citizens conducted themselves in a foreign land, with an impossible mission, less than adequate support, and a very uncertain future. 

All of our team returned alive (but not all uninjured, visibly or no). But seemingly every week, if we were at the larger base five kilometers away, one of our Fallen would be flown by helicopter to a waiting transport enroute to Germany, and then to Dover Air Force Base for a dignified transfer.  When that happened, a call would go out over the loudspeakers to form up for a “ramp ceremony.” 

Right in the middle of the war, and at any hour, no matter what we had in front of us, most of us would stop what we were doing and run out to the established path from the medical tents to the helipad and form close ranks on either side.  

The flag-covered metal casket was respectfully carried by as we all saluted our final farewell.  Doubtless we thought of our own families as we tried to imagine theirs, and the generations of pain to follow.  And as we honored them, we guarded their final trip home.  That was our Memorial Day, every time we gathered.  

Let us today never forget what such a memorial means for our freedoms, and for those we love.  Let us never stop striving to do better for those who have given everything imaginable to us all. 

Steve Deal is a retired Navy officer who resides in St. Albans Town, Vermont.  During his twenty-seven years of active duty, he commanded an aviation squadron in Iraq, a provincial reconstruction team in Afghanistan, and an air wing in Washington state.